


Possession

by mldrgrl



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Orison, post-ep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 20:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: Based on this prompt request:  Mulder and Scully have both dealt with abductions and kidnappings where they were held against their will. I imagine that it took a while for them to feel comfortable with any type of bondage. I think it’d be interesting to explore how or when they became comfortable with that and if it felt really empowering the first time. I especially see Scully having reservations at first but maybe requesting it.





	Possession

I’m fine, she tells herself.  I’m fine, except for the nightmares.  If not for the nightmares, everything would be fine.  It’s easy to hide in the daylight, but not in the night.  Not since she now shares a bed with Mulder most nights.  She almost wishes for a case to take them away so their self-imposed rule of separate rooms during work hours would make things easier, but she fired her weapon a week ago; killed Donnie Pfaster in her living room a week ago, and she’s on mandatory desk duty for a month, which means, no going out of town and since her place is both a crime scene and a wreck, she’s been sleeping (or not sleeping) at Mulder’s for the last week.

 

He’s too attuned to her for it to go unnoticed.  A fact she expected, but finds disconcerting nonetheless.  It’s as though he has a sixth sense about her body that even she lacks.  He knows she’s hungry before she does.  He knows when she has a headache before she does.  He knows when she’s going to cry before she does.  She’s grateful for it and hates it at the same time.

 

So, he knows when she’s having a nightmare before she knows what’s real and what isn’t.  She wakes several times a night in jolts and jerks, the heavy weight of fear on her chest, making it hard to breathe.  He’s never been fully awake beside her, yet still he murmurs soothing sounds and his warmth absorbs her tremors.

 

The cuts and bruises marring her skin have prohibited him from touching her the way in which she knows he’d like, but they’re fading fast, and his hands, though gentle, become incrementally more unbearable to take.  It’s not that she doesn’t want him to touch her, but when she’s fighting demons in her sleep, she’s unable to discern the difference between hands that hurt and hands that heal.

 

Otherwise, she’s fine.  She’s fine when the paramedics tried to check her over.  She’s fine when Mulder asks if she needs anything.  She’s fine at work.  She’s fine when Dr. Koseff asks how she’s doing.  She’s fine at the meetings with Skinner.  She’s fine with whatever takeout Mulder wants to order for dinner.  She’s fine with watching whatever movie happens to be on HBO.  She’s fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

 

She uses the shower as a small reprieve from the day, staying well after her hair has been washed and legs have been shaved, until the water runs cold.  A cloud of steam lingers in the bathroom, fogging the mirror.  It drips with heat, but she didn’t care to check her reflection anyway.  She towel-dries her hair and slips into blue and green plaid flannel pajamas.  The blue pinstriped pair - her favorite - was bagged as evidence a week ago and she knows she’ll never see them again.

 

“Your cheek looks better,” Mulder says.  They pass by each other in the doorway of his room, she on her way out, he on his way in.  His knuckles brush over the fading scrape on her face and she tries not to flinch as she pulls away.

 

They sit together on the couch for Shakespeare in Love, but Scully can’t keep her eyes open for the movie.  She goes to bed alone knowing it won’t be long before Mulder joins her.  She’s too tired though, and falls asleep almost immediately.

 

Her dreams are disjointed, but connected by an insidious thread of terror.  She’s being chased through a forest by a winged demon with red eyes.  She’s caught up and slashed by razor claws on her back and face.  She’s in a tub of ice cold water, her head held down, eyes open, watching the bubbles burst up to the surface as she struggles to breathe and sucks in water.  Her arms are wrenched behind her back and she can’t move.

 

She’s conscious of Mulder’s voice, telling her to wake up, but the more she strives to get out of the nightmare, the more paralyzed she feels.  She can feel pressure on her wrists, but she’s unable to fight it off.  She gives up, gives in, allows the paralysis to take her, and then she wakes with a sharp jerk of the shoulders.

 

“It’s okay,” Mulder whispers, his hand sliding up and down her arm.  “You’re okay.”

 

Her breath comes in quiet, shallow gasps, doing nothing to fill her lungs the way she needs it to.  She’s feverish and sweat-drenched.  Her eyes that had been frantically darting back and forth under her closed lids finally come to rest on the dim silhouette of trees outside the window beyond Mulder’s bed.  She’s about to tell him she’s fine, before he can even ask, but his hand moves further past her elbow and as soon as his fingers brush her wrist, her hand flies back and smacks him soundly in the face.

 

“Jesus,” Mulder says.

 

“I…”  An apology sticks in her throat.  She starts to kick the covers away, feeling overwhelmingly constricted in the moment.

 

“Stop.”

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Let me help.”  He reaches over her struggling body and pulls the bedclothes down for her.  Almost immediately, she starts to shiver from the cold.  He covers her again, but only with the topsheet, careful not to touch her.

 

“I didn’t mean to hit you,” she says.

 

“That’s one wicked backhand you’ve got there, Scully.”

 

She’s still having difficulty breathing normally, but it’s getting better.  Her heart rate has slowed somewhat and though she shivers with the cooling of her sweat, she’s not trembling.  She’s awake and aware that she’s safe, her body just needs a little more time to realize it.

 

“When are you gonna tell me about it?” Mulder asks.

 

“You read the report.”

 

“I’m talking about this.  The nightmares.”

 

Up until now, he hasn’t asked or pressed her for details.  She’s been wondering when he’d finally break.  She’s surprised it took a week.

 

“Just nightmares,” she says.

 

Mulder sighs.  She feels him sit up behind her and then lean back against the headboard.  She watches the silhouette of the tree and thinks it must be windy outside the way it quivers and wavers.

 

“I’m helpless,” she finally says, voice low and quiet, part of her hoping that maybe he can’t even hear her.  “What more do you want to know?”

 

“Why are you helpless?”

 

“That’s a stupid question.”

 

“I beg to differ.  It’s your subconscious.  You can be anything you want.  Why are you helpless?”

 

She actually pauses to think about this.  In the bits and pieces of the dreams that she can remember, it hasn’t been about the actual incident, but only about the palpable fear.  The fear that comes from being vulnerable and defenseless.  

 

Scully hears the snap of the bedside lamp turning on and she reflexively squints, even though the light is soft.  She feels Mulder get out of bed and she turns her head to watch him over her shoulder.  He stands at his dresser in nothing but a pair of boxers, his back to her.  When he turns around, he’s got his handcuffs in one hand and the key in the other, which he shows to her.  She sits up and scrambles backwards until her back is pressed to the headboard and digging painfully into her spine.

 

Her heart is pounding and already her wrists began to burn as though chafed.  She mutely eyes the set of cuffs, her mouth suddenly too dry to protest.  She can smell the fear oozing from her pores and she thinks it’s possible she might still be locked in a nightmare.  But then, Mulder sets the key down on the nightstand and tosses the cuffs onto the bed next to her.  Without a word, he turns around at the side of the bed and crosses his wrists behind his back.

 

“What’re you doing?” she asks.

 

“This is about control, isn’t it?  Not having it, wanting it, needing it.  Take it back.  Start with me.  If you need to control something, control me.”

 

“I can’t...I can’t do that.”

 

He looks at her over his shoulder, just for a moment.  “I trust you,” he says, and she’s left staring at the back of his head.

 

It takes her some time to move.  Mulder just stands silently the whole time, his hands resting at the small of his back.  Something holds her back from picking up the handcuffs.  She knows he wants to help, but he doesn’t know what it’s like to have been pinned down, tied up, gagged, thrown into the trunk of a car, locked in his own closet, strapped to a chair, or pulled himself through shards of glass to escape.  He’s had his own ordeals, to be fair, but nothing like Pfaster.  Like Duane Barry.  Like Gerry Schnauz.

 

With her index finger, she traces the inside loop of one of the cuffs.  The metal is cool against her fingertip.  She picks them up, the weight familiar, but foreign.  She’s never considered them as more than an accessory of work, never stopped to contemplate what it means to subdue and restrain beyond the initial adrenaline-fueled moments of locking the bracelets on someone’s wrists.  If she cuffs Mulder, he’ll be powerless.  And what will she do with her power over him?

 

“You don’t know what you’re asking,” she says.

 

“I trust you, Scully.  You need to take control.”

 

She walks across the bed on her knees and then sits back on her heels behind him.  He’s standing patiently and she doesn’t know how he could possibly be so calm.  She isn’t going to hurt him though, and of course he knows that, which has to make a difference.  Still, though, even knowing she would be safe, she doesn’t think she could do that.

 

She locks the cuffs on his wrists one at a time, keeping them loose.  He tugs against the chain when she’s finished and twists his hands a little.

 

“Tighter, Scully,” he says.

 

“You don’t have to do this.”

 

“I don’t want them to slip off accidentally.”

 

Scully tightens the cuffs a few clicks and this time, when Mulder tugs at them, they don’t slip so much over his wrists.  His arms go still and she watches the rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes.  She looks for tension in his muscles, but there is none.  He cocks his head towards his shoulder as though he’s listening for something.

 

“You could-”

 

“Shut up,” she snaps.  He jumps slightly and so does she.  They’re both startled by her harsh tone.  She doesn’t even know where it came from.  “I…”

 

Mulder straightens his head and lifts his chin up.  He stands a little taller, but he’s still relaxed.  She flattens a hand against his back in apology.  His skin is warm and soft, like always.  When she touches him, he pulls at the cuffs just a little and she realizes this may be more difficult for him than she thought.

 

Since the very first day she’s known him, Mulder can not help but touch.  Even when he’s not guiding her out a door or plucking at her elbow to get her attention, he’s whispering case notes in her ear, or just invading her personal space in general.  He’s always conveyed so much to her by touch or by eye contact.  Giving that up now is like giving up his voice.  He’s forcing her to talk to him, since he can’t talk to her.

 

“Get on your knees,” she says.

 

He bends, kneeling first on his left knee and then brings his right down as well.  She has no idea why she asked him to do that, but once he’s lowered himself, she does as well, sitting on the side of the bed.  Even though Mulder’s bed is low, her feet don’t quite touch the ground.  She reaches out with her foot and runs her big toe along the back of his calf.  He clenches and she stops.

 

“I have all the control?” she asks.

 

Mulder nods.  Scully slips off the bed.  She puts her hand in Mulder’s hair as she circles him and then kneels down in front of him.  He looks down at her as she puts both hands on his shoulders.  She only takes a glance up at him and then circles his waist and lays her head against his chest.

 

“Why do people have nightmares?” she asks.

 

“Insecurity,” he answers.  “Anxiety.  Repressed fear.  Frustration.  There are some that theorize nightmares are a way of punishing ourselves for aspects of our lives we find unacceptable.  It’s also possible that the dream itself represents something we’re not willing to face in waking life, but are able to confront and identify in the subconscious realm of sleep, transforming that which we’re afraid of into something less horrifying.”

 

“Post traumatic stress?”

 

“That too.”

 

Scully moves her hands down Mulder’s back to his arms and down to where his wrists are joined in the cuffs.  She holds on to the undersides of his forearms and pushes the tips of her fingers into the gaps between his palms and the metal bracelets.  He drops his head down and nuzzles the hair above her ear.

 

“What do you think of me now?” she asks.

 

“In what sense?”

 

“What do you think about having a partner that can’t defend herself?  That let’s a convicted killer take her off guard, throw her against a wall, hog-tie her, and who kills him where he stands when she could’ve arrested him.”

 

“You’re changing the narrative.”

 

“You didn’t answer the question.”

 

“My partner is the best agent I know.  She was surprise attacked, in her own home where she’s supposed to be able to have her guard down.  She was overpowered, beaten, and after freeing herself from the restraints he bound her in, used her weapon in self-defense.  She did exactly what she was supposed to do.”

 

“What was I supposed to do, Mulder?”

 

“Survive.  Sometimes it’s all you can do.  And you did just that.  You’re here, you’re fine, you’re-”

 

“But, I’m not fine,” she whispers.  “I’m not fine, Mulder.”

 

“You will be.”

 

Scully’s eyes close against the pull of her brows.  She can feel the crease of tension form above her nose.  She wants the confidence that Mulder has.  His faith in her is greater than what she has in herself.  Deep down somewhere, she knows she’s stronger than this.  She can’t let Pfaster break her.  She won’t.

 

“Uncuff me?” Mulder asks.

 

“What if I like you like this?”  She squeezes his wrists and turns her head to rub her face against his chest.

 

“Then I better get used to it.”

 

She tips her head back and Mulder bends his to press his lips to hers.  She misses his hands in her hair, but it’s still a powerful kiss.  His lips pull at hers as though he can also pull her doubt from her as well.  He leans into her and she leans back until she has to slip her arms free and push him back.

 

She gets up off the floor even as Mulder leans back in to try to kiss her again.  She swipes the key to the handcuffs from the nightstand and bends over him to unlock his wrists.  He rolls his shoulders a little and rubs his wrists as she runs her fingers over the grooves that lock the bracelets into place.  He stays kneeling on the floor and reaches up to hold her forearms.

 

“Your dreams are yours to control,” he says.  “Just like I am.”

 

Scully arches her brow.  Under different circumstances, he might mean that some other way.  Under different circumstances, she might entertain it some other way.  She looks at Mulder’s hands, cuffing her arms not so unlike the metal ones she holds.  She feels no fear in how he holds her.  Her thumbs trace the inner arc of the cuffs.

 

“Do you think you can sleep?”  Mulder asks.

 

“I don’t know.  Can I ask you to do something for me?”

 

“Of course.”

 

“Hold me.  Don’t hold me down, just hold me.”

 

“I can do that.”

 

Mulder gets up from his knees and Scully keeps her grip on the handcuffs.  She looks down at them with a bit of awakened curiosity.  

 

“I’m not ready yet,” she says.  “But, next time, I want you to put these on me.”

 

“Are you sure about that?”

 

“I’m not sure.  But, I’ll tell you when I am.  I trust you.”

 

Mulder nods and takes them from her hands, placing them gently on the nightstand.  “Let’s go to bed.”

 

Scully nods as well.  She’s tired.

 

The End

  
  



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